


define me

by that_one_kid



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint & Natasha - Freeform, Clint's a little shit, Gen, Natasha centric, Natasha's a little broken, Non-Chronological, but in the best possible way, fluff and sad, trigger warning for injuries and hospitals, trigger warnings for implied child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_one_kid/pseuds/that_one_kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha can translate any word, but it took a snarky archer to teach her how to define them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will probably update slowly, my apologies. But have a bunch of Clint & Nat.

The Red Room teaches many languages. They blur together in her head sometimes, a useless jumble of alphabets and letters and fake emotions.

They gave her a dictionary, once. So, when she was confused, she would sit in her room and turn through the pages, learning each word.

She knew all the definitions by the time she ran, but it took an archer with a soft spot for ex-KGB spies to teach her the meanings.

_Endurance (n.): The effect or power of withstanding an unpleasant situation without giving way_

She was never alone. Even during her so-called childhood, she’d been accompanied by the shadow of the Red Room. Now, running from the shadow, she was followed by old and new enemies alike. Agents of the Red Room hunted her, too, silent and invisible. More agencies joined the hunt, looking for an easy target.

She thought about that as she ran, and she allowed herself a sardonic grin, which tasted of dust and blood. There were very few things that an ex-KGB, ex-Red Room operative could become, but an easy target was not one of them.

She had turned on those who’d crept to the front of the pack and tore them apart, left them for the others to find. She fought until she couldn’t find any more enemies, until the only assassins left were the invisible. Then she ran.

She was tired of running, but she kept going, because she didn't want to fight anymore.

The hotel that she stayed in was so old, the wood creaked under any foot, and she lost the battle to keep her ascent to her room silent. She stumbled into the room and threw the bolt, glancing around the room. She failed to notice the small window, so covered in the dust breathed by a thousand desperate travellers that no light could be seen through it.

She built a dummy out of pillows and laid it in comfort on the bed, before curling up herself on the hard wooden floor. Her lungs ached, and her hands were blistered and bleeding, but the room was safe and her pistol was a reassuring weight in her hand. She fell asleep in seconds.

_Unconscious (adj.): Not aware of or responding to one’s surroundings_

In her sleep, she flinched, and curled herself tighter into a ball. A laser sight danced across the grimy window, settling on the figure on the bed for only a second. Then it swept through the rest of the room, settling again. This time it was between her shoulderblades.  
~

He sat outside, perched on a concrete roof and watching through the window that the target hadn’t noticed was there. The whisper in the night as he drew his bowstring back drew no attention. The others that he’d noticed around crept closer, like jackals. Hawkeye gave the target a long, appraising glance that he wasn’t supposed to give. True to his name, he noticed too much.

He saw the way she left the bed to the decoy and slept on the floor. He saw the way that despite the fact she was armed with a handgun, very few of the assassins who’d gone after her had ended up fully dead.

A laser sight danced on her window, hesitating, and then Clint sighed. Anyone looking for him would only have found a creak as he drew the bowstring back, and his quiet exhale as he lined up the shot and fired. The arrow whistled softly through the air, finding its target with a fatal thud. The would-be jackal was dead before he hit the ground, his laser sight gone from Natasha’s window.

“Guess I made a different call,” Clint said under his breath, lining up the sights again. “Coulson’s gonna be pissed.”

She’d kept running for as long as her legs could carry her, but her soul as worn as the soles of her shoes. Clint knew what they said about endurance. When you can't run, you crawl. And when you can't do that- you find someone to carry you.


	2. Hope

_Hope (n.): archaic, a feeling of trust, to intend if possible to do something_

They were around her, faceless doctors in masks splattered with blood, her blood. Her heartbeat was slow, her breathing was deep and calm, her face composed. She was screaming inside her head, the pain like a knife in her side, but she couldn’t force herself to flinch away, to breathe faster, couldn’t feel her heart beating faster. She was a prisoner, with no control over her body, no control over anything. She woke quickly, as always, her mind snapping into consciousness with a jolt. The window. The hotel room had a window.

The morning sunlight trickled through the window’s grimy panes onto her face. She was moving before she knew why. Her gun in her hand, she dove away from the window, pressing herself into the corner of the room, checking the ammunition, taking off the safety.

Her sense of time was slipping, from the dehydration and pain and lack of sleep, but she blinked once in confusion at the daylight outside. If she’d slept through the night in front of a window, she should be dead. But, despite this flawless logic, her brain insisted she was alive.

_Life: A constellation of vital phenomena; organization, irritability, movement, growth, reproduction, adaptation_

Slowly, she crept up to the window, peering outside through the dust. Police lights left splashes of color on the walls of the alley. Bodies were being hauled away on stretchers, and she recognized most of them as people who’d been hunting her, or following her. She saw a few Red Room agents from the Retrieval Squad. Most of the bodies had an arrow shaft protruding at an awkward, jutting angle from a vital organ. She scanned the surrounding buildings, fighting to keep the surprise off of her face.

When she’d run, she’d expected death. She’d expected the pain and the fear, the struggle to keep going despite the weight of her legs and the constant reminder of her aching body that she needed food, water, and sleep. She’d never expected an ally.

“What do you think?” asked someone from behind her, and she stayed still, angled to look out the window. “I'm not holding a gun on you, ya know. You can turn around.” She turned slowly, unsure of what she’d find. A solidly built man, just taller than herself, stood in the doorway. He was covered in the dust and grime of high places and sniping missions.

“You're the archer?” she said, unsure of which accent to use and ending up with almost no accent at all.

“Clint Barton.” The man said, slowly raising a hand towards her. “Don't kill me for saying it, but I think you could use some help.” She didn't move towards the offered hand and he put it back by his side.

“Who’s offering?” she asked, telling herself it was just curiosity, that she was still definitely not considering anything.

“I am.” Clint Barton said, simply. “I can't promise that I speak for my organization, or that they're all good people. But I can promise you my help.”

“Honesty?” she asked, with a tilt of her head. “And you think you're a spy? There’s a chance that you're in the wrong business, Barton.”

“I think sniping is the most honest profession,” he said, grinning at her. “At least my arrows don't tell lies. And speaking of lies, what's your name?” She hesitated.

“Nat-” she stopped. “Natasha.” It was the closest to the truth she could force herself to say.

“Okay, Natasha. Let's make a deal. I'll call you Natasha and you'll agree not to lie to me anymore.” She gave him a look and he laughed. “More than is necessary,” he appended, and was rewarded by a faint smile.

“So, who do you work for?”

“Little place out in the country of America,” he said, his voice suddenly accented with a Southern twang. “You may have heard of us.” He reached slowly into his coat, pulling out a worn leather wallet without breaking eye contact. He tossed it to her, and she flipped it open to see the metal logo inside, the faint hope, forged into the shape of a shield.


	3. Calm

_Calm (adj.): Pleasantly free from violent or unpleasant emotion_

If asked, Clint would gladly explain that he knew that op was going to go badly before it happens, and he would helpfully point out that he had objected to the mission parameters officially and unofficially to Director Fury. He, in fact, packed an extra gun and clip of ammunition. If asked, Natasha will fail to point out that his objections were about the contact’s “shady” business, and also fail to point out that his mysterious premonition did not in any way include concern about the weather. Partners have to stick together, after all.

But Clint had warned Fury that something about the op was off, so when they had shut down the Hydra base, evacuated the junior agents through the rainy night to the Quinjet, and secured the technology, all without any casualties, Fury chose that moment to come over the comms and brag.

“Agent Barton, the mission appears to be satisfactorily completed. You and Agent Romanov should report back to the Quinjet as soon as possible, without blowing your covers.” his voice took on a smug tone. “This mission seems to have gone off without a hitch.”

Clint shook his head slowly, and deactivated his comm. He turned to Natasha with a look of tired expectation. “When will he learn that saying that will never, ever, end well?” he asked her with a sigh. She was ignoring him, staring out the window into the dark. A sudden hard gust of wind rattled the window, and the rain ran down the window pane.

“The storm is getting bad,” she said, her voice taut. “We need to head out, now.”

“Since when do we worry about getting our shoes wet?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“If the wind gets too much worse, the Quinjet will leave without us.”

“Fine. Then let’s head out, before Fury’s jinx has time to take effect.” he said, and offered her his arm with an overly chivalrous sweep. She rolled her eyes, and they pushed out of the base doors into the rain. Another gust of wind caught the heavy door and slammed it shut behind them. A strong, sustained wind was blowing from the west. Clint leaned into the wind, Natasha pressed against his side.

“On second thought,” he shouted, over the wind. “Perhaps there’s more to this storm than getting our shoes wet.”   
  
“Turn on your comms,” he felt more than heard her shout, but he was distracted by the piece of metal sheeting that flew by. The wind was growing stronger, and the rain was driving against his face like small pebbles. Natasha reached up and fumbled for his comm. It switched on with a burst of what sounded like static. He jumped, and she shook her head, brushing water from her face.

“Are yours down too?” she shouted, and he nodded, taking the comm out with one hand and sliding it into a pocket in his suit jacket. An alarm blared from the base behind them.

SAFE HOUSE CLOSE he signed. The howling of the wind, combined with the wail of the alert siren from the base behind them and the sound of pieces of debris blowing around had made it too loud for shouting.

She shook her head, pointing at the water, which was already up to her knees. UP she signed, pointing towards the mountain road ahead. He nodded, and they struggled to climb the road against the current flowing down.

~

  
They found an old KGB safe house halfway up the mountain. Natasha’s code worked on the door. Clint’s card still worked on the door, and they stumbled inside. They were soaking wet, covered in dust and mud, with wild eyes and windblown hair. Natasha shouldered the door shut, and Clint started laughing.

“I knew it,” he said, “This is always what happens if you say that nothing can go wrong.” As if to prove his point, a gust of wind shook the house. Natasha vanished into the kitchen, and Clint listened to the clattering of cans and pots.

“How screwed are we?” he called, and she stepped back out into the living room.

“There’s some canned food that should still be good.” she said, leaning on the back of the worn couch. “There’s a shower with running water in the back, and I think this TV still works.”

_Safety: (n.) The condition of being protected from or unlikely to cause danger, risk, or injury_

~

Natasha padded into the kitchen, combing her wet hair with her fingers. She had a towel wrapped around her shoulders, and she stopped in the doorway, tilting her head up to smell the air.

“What are you-”

Clint was standing in the kitchen, a maniacal grin on his face and three pots on the stove. There were splatters of red and some kind of dust spread across the counters.

“Done!” he said triumphantly, and Natasha gave him two plates and a raised eyebrow.

“Dinner!” he said, sliding plates of steaming food onto the solid wood table. A fire crackled in the fireplace, under a bucket to catch the rain from the chimney. The rainwater was boiling, steam and light warming the room.

Natasha sat across the table from Clint, and they are in silence, watching the rain fall outside. Natasha realized later that night, as she slid a gun under the bed and set her knife on the dresser, that it was the first time she could remember that she’d been off guard.


End file.
